


i found god, i found him in a lover, when his hair falls in his face

by theglitterati



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Developing Relationship, Haircuts, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-05
Updated: 2015-11-05
Packaged: 2018-04-30 03:08:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5148026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theglitterati/pseuds/theglitterati
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Jesus, Enjolras, relax," Grantaire huffs, sliding the fingers of one hand through the curls at the back of Enjolras’s neck. He was talking about the typically passionate tirade Enjolras was about to go on, but – although Grantaire thinks he’s probably imagining it – Enjolras seems to physically relax at his touch, leaning his head towards Grantaire’s hand.</p>
<p>Grantaire gives Enjolras a haircut.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i found god, i found him in a lover, when his hair falls in his face

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from Halsey's "Coming Down."

The meeting has been going on for forty-five minutes, and Enjolras has brushed his hair out of his eyes thirty-six times since it started.

Grantaire sometimes wishes that he could stop noticing these things, that he could maybe once make it through a meeting without finding some new tick of Enjolras’s to memorize and then venerate. Like the way he fidgets and plays with the papers he’s holding while he speaks, or the way he chews on the inside of his cheek when he’s thinking, or how his cheeks turn just the slightest bit red when Grantaire really lays into him in an argument. None of this information has any other purpose in Grantaire’s mind than to keep him up at night, analyzing Enjolras’s many foibles instead of sleeping.

This time, however, Grantaire sees a practical application for the observation. Practical in that it can maybe get Enjolras to spare Grantaire twenty full minutes of his undivided attention, enough for Grantaire to live on for weeks.

“It’s going to be hard for you to lead the free world if you can’t even see,” Grantaire says, standing over Enjolras’s table once the meeting has dispersed.

“What?”

“Your hair. It’s too long. You keep brushing it out of your eyes every two seconds.”

Aware of it now, Enjolras brushes the hair back again. “What, R, you didn’t have enough fun ripping apart my speech about the Work/Study program?” he asks. “Now you’re making fun of my hair, too?”

“Not making fun,” Grantaire says. “Offering my services. I could cut your hair for you.”

“What?”

“I do that. Cut hair.” Grantaire takes a big gulp from his glass of red wine.

Unsurprisingly, Enjolras is skeptical. “Whose hair have you cut?”

“My own. Feuilly’s. Bossuet’s.”

“Bossuet doesn’t even have hair!”

“Who do you think keeps him that way?!”

Enjolras rolls his eyes then, and Grantaire can tell he’s losing him. He brings out the big guns.

“And Jehan’s,” he throws out casually.

That gets Enjolras’s attention. “No way.”

“Way.”

It’s a scientific fact that Jehan has the most beautiful hair on the planet. A lot of it is due to its natural orange-red colour, but his long, graceful cut is certainly an asset, too.

“Jehan!” Enjolras calls across the room.

“Yeah?”

“Did Grantaire really give you that haircut?”

“He did indeed.”

Enjolras turns back to Grantaire, seemingly impressed.

“You don’t think very highly of me, do you?” Grantaire muses. “Of all the other people I’ve offered free haircuts to, none of them have gone looking for references.”

“Sorry,” Enjolras says sheepishly. “I would like you to do it, if the offer still stands.”

“I suppose,” Grantaire says, as though he’s anything other than thrilled. “Do you want to come over tomorrow before my class at 4:30?”

“Sure,” Enjolras agrees. He gives Grantaire a small smile, and Grantaire smiles back, and it feels like dancing on the edge of a cliff.

***

Enjolras knocks on the door of Grantaire and Feuilly’s apartment at 3:30 on Friday. Feuilly left for work at noon, and Grantaire may or may not have spent the entire time since then trying to clean the apartment without making it look like he did it just for Enjolras’s benefit. It’s not the first time Enjolras has been there, but it’s the first time in the daylight, and Grantaire wants to keep up appearances.

“Bienvenue chez _Salon R_ ,” Grantaire says when he opens the door. Enjolras just snorts and follows Grantaire into the living room.

“You can sit here,” Grantaire says, pointing to the wooden chair he’s placed in the middle of the room. Enjolras does so. Grantaire grabs a sheet with paint splatters all over it and throws it around Enjolras from behind. “To keep your clothes clean,” Grantaire says, when Enjolras spins around to look at him. “I promise all of the paint is dry.”

“How did you learn to cut hair?” Enjolras asks, as Grantaire gathers up his scissors and comb.

“What, you want my resume now, too?”

“I’m just making conversation, R,” Enjolras says with an eye roll. “Excuse me for being curious.”

Grantaire stands behind Enjolras, and pushes down the feeling that rises in his chest from the knowledge that Enjolras is actually interested in knowing something about him. He’s glad Enjolras can’t see him right then; he feels like the adoration is written all over his face. He answers, though, because when has he ever deprived Enjolras of what he wanted?

“My hair was getting too long, and I was too cheap to pay for a haircut. So I watched a bunch of YouTube videos and learned how to do it.”

“The Internet’s ruining so many small business’s ability to—”

“Jesus, Enjolras, relax,” Grantaire huffs, sliding the fingers of one hand through the curls at the back of Enjolras’s neck. He was talking about the typically passionate tirade Enjolras was about to go on, but – although Grantaire thinks he’s probably imagining it – Enjolras seems to _physically_ relax at his touch, leaning his head towards Grantaire’s hand. Grantaire coughs, pulling his hand away to cover his mouth, and continues what he was saying.

“Me being too broke to pay some old dude ten bucks to cut my hair is not the worst thing wrong with our economy right now.”

“Still,” Enjolras mutters.

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Grantaire says peaceably. “So do you want me to just trim it? Or do you want something weird, like a mohawk, or for me to dye it purple?”

“If you give do either of those things, I’m going to stab you with those scissors when we’re done.”

“So just the trim then,” Grantaire says.

Like he would ever consider chopping or dyeing Enjolras’s hair. Even if Enjolras asked him, he wouldn’t do it. Enjolras has lovely hair, maybe not as beautiful as Jehan’s, but soft and shiny and perfectly wavy.

Grantaire can't wait to get his hands in it again. He slides both hands through it this time, moving his fingers from the nape of Enjolras’s neck to his hairline and back. It’s the first time Grantaire has ever touched Enjolras for more than just a tap on the shoulder or to pass him a pen, and it’s like swimming in shark-infested waters.

But this time, he’s not imagining it when Enjolras leans into his hands, and he’s definitely not imagining it when he lets out a small, contented sigh. Grantaire chalks it up to the fact that Enjolras hasn’t dated anyone in the year that they’ve known each other, and must not be used to being touched. The thought makes him a little sad.

He runs his hands through Enjolras’s hair two more times, after which he no longer thinks he can pass the touch off as professional. He grabs the scissors and comb, instead, and gets to trimming.

Grantaire has had plenty of practice with this, so he makes quick work of the haircut. When he moves around to the front of the chair, Enjolras watches every one of his movements.

“Close your eyes,” Grantaire says softly, when he goes to cut the hair above Enjolras’s eyes. Enjolras lets his eyes fall shut at the same time that his lips fall slightly open, and Grantaire thinks that he’s never seen Enjolras like this before, quiet and calm and docile, and probably never will again.

It’s over too soon, Grantaire brushing the hair off of the translucent skin underneath Enjolras’s eyes as gently as he can, Enjolras’s eyes still closed. He pulls pieces from both sides together to make sure that they’re even, then takes his opportunity to run his fingers through Enjolras’s hair one last time, on the pretence of styling it.

Enjolras’s eyes open, and he looks so strangely vulnerable that Grantaire can’t take it anymore, having stood in the flames for far too long to handle in one day. He moves behind Enjolras, quickly untying the sheet.

He goes to pull it off, but Enjolras grabs at the front of it, looking slightly panicked for reasons Grantaire doesn’t understand.

“I’ll fold it,” Enjolras says, his face reddening. He turns away from Grantaire and pulls two corners of the sheet together.

But he doesn’t turn far enough, and Grantaire looks down and sees exactly why Enjolras was so nervous about moving the sheet, and something _snaps_ in Grantaire, and he can’t hold back anymore. He grabs Enjolras by the waist, turns him around, and kisses him, not thinking or caring about consequences.

He knows he did the right thing when Enjolras leans into him, opening his mouth and kissing Grantaire back messily. And now that Grantaire has finally crossed this line, he can’t hold himself back, grabbing Enjolras by the hips and pulling him against him. Grantaire is hard now, too, and they move fitfully against each other, Grantaire breaking their kiss only to move aside Enjolras's t-shirt and bite a bruise into his collarbone. Enjolras answers with a moan in Grantaire’s ear.

Grantaire knows that this isn’t about him. Enjolras just isn’t used to having anyone touch him, and now that he’s gotten it… well, it’s always all or nothing with Enjolras. Grantaire frankly doesn’t care that it could have been anyone else in his place; it’s enough for him to feel lucky that the universe chose him. All Grantaire cares about it making Enjolras feel good – no, _great, rapturous, blissful_ – which is why he takes him by the wrist and leads him into his bedroom.

The canvasses and books that Grantaire cleaned out of the living room before have been tossed in messy piles in there, but Grantaire doesn’t give a shit anymore. He moves Enjolras onto the bed, his head on Grantaire’s pillow – there’ll be time to have an aneurism about that _later_ – and climbs on top of him. He leans in to kiss Enjolras, one hand supporting him against the headboard, the other working at the button on Enjolras’s khakis.

He gets Enjolras’s pants and boxers down off of his hips, and takes him reverently into his hand. Enjolras opens his mouth wide and whines at the feeling, an obscene noise that Grantaire tries to commit to memory. Enjolras’s hands are grappling at Grantaire’s sides, trying to pull him back to his mouth.

“Do you have a thing about your hair being touched?” Grantaire asks between kisses, weaving his fingers back into Enjolras’s fine curls and tugging experimentally. “Do you want me to do that again?”

“It’s not the hair,” Enjolras gets out between breaths, “it’s _you_.”

Grantaire finds he has no answer for that, no way to even process the information, so instead of answering, he shifts down the bed and takes Enjolras into his mouth, maneuvering him in deeper and deeper until Grantaire’s nose is pressed against his pelvic bone.

Enjolras’s inexperience shows when only seconds later, he’s the one pulling at Grantaire’s hair, trying to move him away. Grantaire just bats his hands away, and when Enjolras comes with a wild moan and a string of curse words, Grantaire swallows him all down.

As soon as he pulls off and lays back on the bed, Enjolras’s hands are at his fly, ripping down the zipper. Grantaire wants to stop him, to tell him that he doesn’t have to, but Enjolras looks far too pretty in his debauched state, and Grantaire’s self-control has gone out the window.

He’s finished within less than a minute, not from inexperience, but from overstimulation. Grantaire tries to keep himself from yelling Enjolras’s name as he comes, just mouthing it silently instead. When it’s over, he cleans himself off with the bedsheet, then crumples it up on the floor and lays down beside Enjolras, exhausted. Enjolras curls into him, placing one hand on his chest, and Grantaire’s arms find their way around Enjolras automatically.

“Well, none of the other haircuts I’ve given have ended like that,” Grantaire says finally, eager to break the silence and get back to his usual routine of self-deprecation and worship from afar.

“I never got to see it,” Enjolras says, sitting up. “The haircut.”

“I’ll get you a mirror,” Grantaire says, heading for the washroom.

He brings a hand mirror back and gives it to Enjolras, who appraises himself from all angles.

“It’s very good,” Enjolras says, and Grantaire can’t help but feel his heart soar. He’s expecting Enjolras to get up and leave now, but instead, Enjolras pulls Grantaire back down onto the pillows with him, looking at him intently.

“Did you hear what I said? While we were…” Enjolras trails off.

“The moaning, or the cursing?” Grantaire jokes.

Enjolras doesn’t look amused. “When I said that it was you that I wanted. That you were what was important to me.”

Grantaire ducks his head, ready to make another joke, but Enjolras pulls his chin back so that they’re facing each other.

“I want you, Grantaire. As more than just my barber. I want to be with you. I want to be yours.”

Enjolras could have asked Grantaire to kill for him, or die for him, and Grantaire would have said yes. There was nothing that he could ever ask of Grantaire that Grantaire would deny him, even if it meant sacrificing himself. Especially if it meant sacrificing himself.

But there’s something about the look on Enjolras’s face, a look of earnestness and voluntary vulnerability, so different from the fierce-eyed leader Grantaire is used to staring at from a safe distance. Something that makes Grantaire think that taking Enjolras’s offer will be more like stepping back from the edge than jumping off the cliff.

“Okay,” Grantaire says simply, pulling Enjolras into a hug that he hopes conveys what he cannot yet say.

What Grantaire does say is, “Oh, fuck,” because he can see the clock over the top of Enjolras’s head, and it’s 4:35.

“I was supposed to be in class five minutes ago,” he says.

“Shit,” Enjolras agrees, climbing off of him and helping him up from the bed, the two of them coming face to face.

“I could stay home, if you want,” Grantaire says with a smile, giving Enjolras a long, overindulgent kiss.

“No, you really should go,” Enjolras tells him. “I don’t want to start being a bad influence on you so early in our relationship.”

Grantaire cannot compute that word being used to describe the two of them yet, so he just gathers up his stuff and leads Enjolras out of the building in a daze.

“See you in four to six weeks for a trim?” Grantaire says when they’re on the sidewalk.

“See you tonight, right when your class is finished?” Enjolras replies.

Grantaire just nods, unable to remember how to speak words.

“Good,” Enjolras says, and then he leans in to give Grantaire a kiss that’s far too filthy for the sidewalk, reaching up and raking his hands viciously through Grantaire’s hair.

“See you later,” Enjolras smirks before walking away, leaving Grantaire to walk to class alone, grinning like an idiot.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time writing something like this from Grantaire's POV... thoughts? This isn't the only way I think about his thoughts, but it's one of them


End file.
